


Tick Tock

by A Magiluna Stormwriter (ariestess)



Category: West Wing
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 14:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariestess/pseuds/A%20Magiluna%20Stormwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The incessant ticking of the wall clock is a constant reminder of time's inexorable march toward infinite oblivion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tick Tock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Gathering Dust](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/3249) by Luna. 



> Date Written: 22-23 April 2011  
> Word Count: 1724  
> Written for: [Remix Redux 9: Love Potion No. 9](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Remix2011)  
> Recipient: [Luna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna/profile)  
> Original story: [Gathering Dust](http://www.sparkgirls.com/stories/violet/gathdust.html)  
> Summary: The incessant ticking of the wall clock is a constant reminder of time's inexorable march toward infinite oblivion.  
> Spoilers: Pre-series.  
> Warning: No standard warnings apply.  
> Archive: ShatterStorm Productions & AO3… anyone else has to ask first  
> Feedback :: Constructive feedback is always welcome.
> 
> Disclaimer: “The West Wing”, the characters and situations depicted are the property of Warner Bros. Television, John Wells Productions, NBC, etc. They are borrowed without permission, but without the intent of infringement. This site is in no way affiliated with "The West Wing", NBC, or any representatives of the actors. This site contains stories between two mature, consenting adult females.
> 
> Author’s Notes: There was an odd sort of mix-up when I went to write this story, and I ended up picking a story not written by my intended recipient because of the website hosting multiple authors. But I was cleared by the mods to keep this one.
> 
> I really liked the "source" story a lot, but kept going back to that one little exchange about dusting as the girls' punishment and Liz sneaking in the kitchen window when she was 16yo. And that's how this story was born. I love exploring the Bartlet family, and Liz has always intrigued me. I fully admit that it's partially because we so rarely saw her, and partially because I have this thing for Annabeth Gish. *g*
> 
> Dedication: My muses, as always…
> 
> Beta: Shatterpath, as always...

April 23, 1984, 03:42 A.M.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

The incessant ticking of the wall clock is a constant reminder of time's inexorable march toward infinite oblivion. Of my utter lack of ability to stop it, or even pause it for the merest moment of time. Just a single moment to catch my breath without feeling the weight of the not knowing crush my lungs as surely as the constrictor I can almost imagine coiled around my chest.

I need to do something, stave off the anger and fear coursing through my veins ever since I discovered Liz missing, but I don't dare wake Jed. He hasn't been sleeping all that well lately, thanks to the flu bug that's been rampaging itself through this household like the French Foreign Legion. Or some other invasive militia in world history that Jed would point out as a better example of my point, like the jackass he can so easily be. How I've become the only one _not_ to contract this damned plague going around is a miracle. I don't even want to think about all of the bodily fluids the rest of my family has anointed me with over the last month of continual illness. This is worse than that horrendous bout of food poisoning that ran amok all over town during my residency.

A rough shake of the head doesn't _quite_ dispel the memories of the effects of that tainted shrimp. To this day, I'm still not sure how I can even consider touching the stuff. But it tastes incredible and Jed loves it. Who am I to deny him something he loves? Particularly now that he's beginning to feel better again. I'll have to check how fresh it is when I do the shopping tomorrow.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Where in the hell is that girl? If she doesn't come home soon, she'd best hope she's lying dead in a ditch somewhere, or in a coma in the hospital. If she's not, I'm going to wring her scrawny, arrogant little neck, and she'll wish she was dead or in a coma.

Tea. That always helps calm me down. A cup of Darjeeling would be preferable, but not at -- Oh God! Where is she? -- three forty-seven in the morning. Not if I want to get any kind of sleep. No, I really must resist the siren's song of Darjeeling tonight, have a little of that ginger-chamomile blend that I found. With just a drop of honey, of course. I'd much prefer a bit of the comb, to be completely honest, but we're out of that, too. Another thing to add to the shopping list.

The fiddly little details of preparing and waiting for the kettle eat up a few more minutes. Without conscious thought, I suddenly find myself carefully peeling back the wrapping from the package of Pepperidge Farms Milano cookies. I really don't need to be indulging in this decadence, particularly when the girls don't even know I have them, but I need the comfort right now. Perhaps the sugar high will keep me from killing Liz whenever she gets home.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

That damned infernal clock is going to be the death of me! No, it's going to be the death of my eldest daughter if she's not careful.

Tea finally steeped, I drizzle in the honey to the perfect level of sweetness that I find most soothing. There is absolutely no reason for overly sweetened foods, no matter what arguments Jed tries to give me. I swear he's worse than the girls have ever been when sweets are involved. Each sip of tea sends a wave of comforting warmth through my body, easing the knots of tension that tightened sharply upon finding Liz's bed empty and cold, her bedroom window propped open by one of Jed's scrap shims.

I can't even begin to decipher what woke me out of the first deep sleep I've had in weeks, but once the initial grogginess dissipated, I had to get up and check on everyone. It's not like I've never done it before when awakened in the middle of the night. It's part and parcel of being a mother.

I needn't have worried about rousing Jed, that's for certain. I honestly could have had a tank blast me out of the bed, and it still wouldn't have woken up Jed. Maybe it was his snoring that woke me up. I'll need to have a chat with Benjamin next week before Jed's next physical. Maybe he can find something to stop that infernal snoring. Then again, since he and the girls have been sick, everything seems so much worse than normal. I have to wonder how long it'll take for both Jed and Liz to get another relapse, especially Jed. He and Ellie have been the most susceptible to this damned thing.

"Damn it, Liz! If you get sick again, or re-infect your sisters or your father…"

My softly muttered words startle me. When did my brain make the decision to take them from thought to actual words without me knowing about it? Not that it really matters. There's no one here to hear me say them anyway.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Another glance at the clock sends my heart racing again. Three fifty-six. What in God's name could that girl possibly be doing out of the house -- out of her _bed_ \-- at nearly four o'clock in the morning? And on a school night at that? Fear for her health aside, my pulse thunders in my ears with an angry surge. How dare she risk her safety, the safety of her entire family, to be sneaking out of her bedroom window in the middle of the night?

If I knew it would do any good, I'd take her over my knee and spank her snotty little butt until she's unable to sit for a week from the blisters. But Liz has always been the headstrong one of my daughters, the one following the beat of her own drum. She's as stubborn as her father, the jackass currently sleeping when he should be up with me, scouring the neighborhood for his missing daughter. She really is too much like him, and I know too well the stories of his youth.

But no, he'll not be taking part in this particular incident. I'll handle it completely on my own.

Getting up to refresh my tea, I pause at the soft sound I can hear outside in the backyard. Muscles move in syncopated tandem as a smile spreads across my face. Showtime. A quick glance at the clock reveals that the second hand has just ticked past the twelve, making it three fifity-nine.

Reaching under the sink, I pull out the bane of Liz's existence and set it on the counter next to the only unlocked, open window in the house. Catching the faintest hint of shadowy movement coming this way, I lean back into the shadows of the kitchen and wait.

She's testing every single window and door as quietly as she possibly can. If I were asleep in my warm, comfortable bed -- Jed's snoring notwithstanding -- I wouldn't hear her machinations. And she probably thinks the entire household is completely oblivious. The faint skritching noise as she eases the window open is my cue to freeze in place. I barely breathe as she slips into the kitchen and carefully closes and locks the window again.

Really, Liz, do you think I'm that stupid and unaware?

She lets out a low, slow sigh of relief and turns around to head to her bedroom. She freezes when she sees the canister of Pledge and the dusting cloth, and I can just see the disgusted look on her face as she realizes she's caught.

"Fuck."

"Watch your language, Elizabeth Anne Bartlet," I warn, voice low and growly, and step out of the shadows to face her across the counter.

"What are you doing up?" She doesn't apologize for the swearing. I’m not surprised. She _is_ her father's daughter, after all.

"I could ask you the same thing." She stiffens, preparing for the battle she's sure we'll have. "But not right now." She relaxes minutely. "Right now, we are both going to bed. You have to be up and ready for school in less than four hours. We'll discuss this when you come home from school. In fact, I'll pick you up."

"Mom--"

"Or I can wake your father and let him deal with this right now." I start to move toward my own bedroom, stopping only when she grabs my wrist.

"Please don't tell Dad."

I study her face, half shadowed in the moonlight, for a long moment. "I'm disappointed in you, Liz, not to mention that I was scared to death something had happened to you. What were you thinking?" But before she can answer me, I shake my head and point toward her bedroom. "Bed now. School, then I _will_ pick you up, and we're going to have a very long talk about this, young lady."

"Yes, ma'am," she says softly.

"By the way? You're grounded for the next two weeks. That could change, depending on our discussion tomorrow. And you'll be dusting this house from top to bottom every single afternoon after school while you're grounded. Am I understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," she replies again, not meeting my eyes.

Without realizing I'm doing it, my hand reaches out, curling a finger under her chin to lift her face so I can see into her eyes. "Whatever it is that's running around in that head of yours, Liz, you know you can always come to me and your father, right?" When she nods slowly, I pull her into a hug, secretly delighted when she returns it. "You're lucky I didn't take you over my knee," I whisper. "But if your father ever finds out--"

"Oh god!" she murmurs, clinging to me.

There's a faint note of my dark sense of humor in her tone, which makes me chuckle and swat lightly at her behind. "Go to bed, Liz. We'll talk about this tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am," she replies again, dutifully kissing my cheek before walking away.

"Was he worth it?"

"I hope so," is all she says as she disappears down the hall.

I hope so, too.


End file.
